


my blood

by apocryphic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Clean Hands, Gen, Post-Low Chaos Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/pseuds/apocryphic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Corvo saves them all, whether they like it or not.</p><p>*on hiatus indefinitely</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Martin wakes in Coldridge, in a cell that drips water like ice, and the drips are rhythmic enough to lull him back into a drugged sleep. He doesn't know he's in Coldridge yet. He doesn't know he's been arrested for everything under the sun that can't reach his little jail cell, and in his deep, dreamless sleep, he doesn't know that he's not dead like he should be.

When he wakes fully and finds out, the ice-cold water that drips on his face feels warmer than the chill that runs through his entire body.

And then there's the rage.

  


* * *

  


They are ‒ or, rather, the _they_ that used to be ‒ all here, for the most part. Havelock is down the hall from him, Pendleton shoved into a more crowded block because he doesn't pick fights the way Martin and Havelock would and do, gladly. Martin learns a bit through hushed gossip around him. He's not let out of his cell for a long while, but he whiles away his time lamenting and arranging in equal amounts, both at once.

He had Corvo Attano liberated from this place once. 

He cannot liberate himself from here when Corvo Attano is his keeper.

Corvo, too merciful to let him die. To let anyone die. Martin can't figure out whether Corvo is just that much of a saint to keep all his enemies, all the backstabbers and traitors, alive ‒ or if perhaps, perhaps, he knows that this is no mercy, and he's letting them all rot in prison rather than in a grave.

Martin had been _so close ‒_

A rat climbs into his cell, squeaks at him once. He stares at it in something like vague horror until it crawls out from the small place it came.

  


* * *

  


Time passes. Slowly, it does. Others come and go from cells around him, yelling abuse at guards and being punished for it.

One day, Geoff Curnow visits the prison.

The same day, guards are replaced.

"You can't walk in and fire _half the force_ ," one of the lower guards protests, and there is silence until there isn't, the sound of paper exchanging hands. Martin listens closely until the guard is finished reading whatever has been given to him. There's a disgusted noise from the guard.

"I can when it's done by order of the Empress," Curnow says with a firm voice, and that is that.

  


* * *

  


Martin learns that Daud the assassin has left Dunwall, and everyone waits with bated breaths to hear of his return. No word comes, and the fear his name instills fades little by little.

  


* * *

  


Days skip by and Martin knows he's not being fruitful. His fingers press into his palms, fists tight as he paces. 

 _Restrict the Wandering Gaze_ , he recites in his head, looking up at the ceiling to watch the drips of water, following them with his eyes.  _That looks hither and_ _yonder for some flashing thing that easily catches a man's fancy in one moment, but brings calamity in the next._

He stops watching the water and instead counts the cracks in the wall.

 _Restrict the lying tongue that is like a spark in a man's mouth_ ‒

His throat closes.

 _Restrict the Restless Hands_ ‒

He relaxes his fingers.

 _Roving feet_ ‒

He stops pacing with a jolt and rubs his face jerkily and his hand comes away wet.

The water drips and drips and drips.

He tries again to count cracks before shutting his eyes to the world.

  


* * *

  


_Errant mind, fractious and divided, two enemies occupying one body, its neck is broken, subject to any heresy._

  


* * *

  


The day comes when Martin is allowed out of his cell, even if only for a short time, and he's given the chance to walk outside. The walls are high and compressing and he stares ahead of himself, spine straight, shoulders back.

They will paint a target on anyone who doesn't walk without fear. He knows this already, he doesn't have to learn it.

Martin makes the mistake of letting himself glance to the gate. There is a man there, as near to the shadow as he can be, in robes of midnight blue. Watching acutely, watching critically; Martin knows him, knows him from his sword to his silence to his skills, and his heart stops for a beat.

The man is the only one who isn’t in a guard’s outfit and isn’t in a prisoner’s garb, and then he simply turns away and steps back into the prison.

Corvo Attano walks without fear.

  


* * *

  


In Morley, Martin's father told him that the best a man could do for himself is do for the good of others.

Martin remembers this too late.

  


* * *

  


Martin meets Havelock outside for the first time since he'd passed out from the poison in his glass.

Havelock says nothing to him. Martin punches him in the jaw.

"You thought you could kill _me,_ you thought you could have my life and Pendleton's too ‒" Martin yells, shouts, as he's dragged back from Havelock with his soon-to-bruise jaw and his bleeding nose and his fever-bright eyes, though sick with what, Martin isn't sure, Martin doesn't care. In the background of the scene, Pendleton lowers his gaze to the ground and shies away, as far as he can be. Martin laughs at him, looking back to Havelock. "You thought it was all tied up neatly, and then _Corvo_ unraveled it again!"

Martin spits the name like a curse. 

Corvo had taken his death from him. Corvo had given him mercy. Corvo had gotten his hands on the poison and done the same as Samuel, halved it ‒ 

‒ _let him live_ ‒ 

‒ stole his _death_ ‒

(Rampant Hunger.)

"He didn't even cut it apart!" Martin shouts as loud as he can, choked and limp against the guards pulling him back. He doesn't make it easy for them. He allows himself to be dragged through the mud. "He just untied it! His _sword_ is cleaner than _our hands_ and he was supposed to be our _assassin_!"

Martin sees a flash of midnight blue in the black shadow and fights free of the people grabbing at him. Falls to his hands and knees.

"You had to take the _privilege_ ," he tries to say, but there's a slam to the back of his head and everything blurs dark and blue and purple and nothing.

  


* * *

  


A letter comes with his food the next morning, stamped with the Empress' wax seal. One word stands out as Martin reads the writing once, twice, again and again.

 _Pardoned_.

He doesn't know whether to sob or cheer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess i couldn't stop writing this 'verse... ah............. whoops?  
> sorry for any OOCness/typos -- it's midnight + i'm really not sure how to write martin OR havelock o_O bear w/ me, y'all.

"What will you have me do?" Martin asks of Corvo with a tight jaw and clenched teeth. Across from him, the Lord Protector has his long hair tied back and a frown adorning his mouth. Both men are groomed properly, Corvo standing straight with a quietness about him that Martin used to enjoy. 

He's grown to find it unnerving. 

"For you," Martin adds as if in clarification, since Corvo hasn't said anything, and there's something tense between them that he knows is because Corvo wants to kill him. There's white spotting across the bodyguard's knuckles, that clear restraint that was so important to the success of the cause showing well.

The Loyalists' cause. Before they became...

Whatever they ended up.

Traitors, mostly.

Corvo seems to remember himself. Gloves come out of his pockets and he slides them over his fingers, looking uncomfortable with the accessories. Tactile person. Also important to their success. 

Martin also knows why he put the gloves on, and knows that it has nothing to do with Corvo being offended by any state of cleanliness and has everything to do with the mark on his left hand. In addition to the impossible feats granted by it.

There was no way for him to get to the top of the lighthouse fast enough. For him to do any of it. 

Martin misjudges _no one._

(Except he had.)

"Emily —" Corvo pauses, presses his lips together. "The Empress... requests your presence at dinner tonight. Since you've rested and recovered from your stay in Coldridge."

"And Havelock?"

Corvo's frown deepens as he answers.

"...Has already said yes." 

"Because he can't turn down an invitation from a child empress or because he wants to actually join you and yours?" Martin says, and Corvo's eyes shut. His fingers fist into his palms once again, twice, and Martin is sure that Corvo is going to leave without saying anything else, but then he's proven wrong.

"Because she demands more than your presence. She demands you accept her forgiveness." 

Martin stays silent. Corvo turns on his heel, disappears around the corner.

Martin goes to dinner.

  


* * *

  


There is an unending well of forgiveness in the child, too. Martin takes a seat beside Havelock, but Martin isn't sure whether that's Havelock's choice or Emily's, as there aren't any other chairs left over. Perhaps it's Corvo's. There's no hiding the damage Martin dealt back during his... outburst. Havelock is sporting an impressive crooked nose, a purple blossom on his jaw. Martin looks only at his eyes when they greet each other, Havelock's face unreadable, Martin's expression one of diligent assertion.

Assertion that he knows his place. Where that place is has yet to be seen. Martin is comfortable in nothing. He hails from nothing and nothing would have had him again, had Corvo not intervened. 

Yet here they are.

And Martin has everything, again.

Corvo does not sit with Emily. He stands beside her as a shadow, and Martin catches the way he touches at his lip with a napkin. Like he's checking to be sure of something.

He's tested her drink already. 

Martin can't stop himself from opening his mouth.

"I believe your days of rescuing people from poison are over," he says, and Havelock does not say anything, but his stiffness beside Martin says everything. Corvo stands silently in place, but he's looking at Martin and Martin won't look back, because he knows there will either be condemnation or pity, and he wants no pity and thrives on condemnation. It's a wretched juxtaposition, a contrast that bites at his heels; instead, he looks at Emily.

Her brows tug together in consternation. It's an adult thing to do.

"It's a safety measure," Emily says with a firmness that can't be refused. It sounds like she's parroting what she's already been told. Martin smiles wryly. 

"I speak for only myself, but I would never harm _you_ ," he replies, and Emily's eyes slide over to Corvo, who is staring at Martin. When the Protector feels her gaze on him, Corvo immediately looks down to meet the look. 

Maybe it's not the mark that gives him those impossible powers, Martin thinks. Maybe it's just the girl. 

"It was never a personal crime against the Empress," Havelock says, and it's the first thing Martin's heard come out of him since the man started monologuing after trying to kill him. Half a dose is apparently enough to knock someone out, _hard_ , but not enough to keep them from having to hear drivel from someone who thinks they're the lesser of all evils. "Rather, against... the whole of the Empire." 

There's a rueful and almost... shameful note in his voice, buried underneath the rehearsed words. Like Havelock is trying to convince himself, too.

Martin knows the feeling.

"Because that's much better," Martin remarks, picking up his glass and drinking a fair bit of the wine from it. Tyvian red, worth it. 

(He tries to hide the way he glances into the drink afterwards as if poison is an afterthought.)

"It is, when concerned with the Empress' safety," Havelock says, and Martin fires back, "Were we concerned with her safety when we locked her in a room, is that what that was?"

Emily interrupts by hitting her glass with her fork repeatedly. Martin clamps his mouth shut, Havelock respectfully turns away, and Corvo looks like he wants the night to be over already. 

"No arguing at the dinner table," the Empress orders and promptly shoves a biscuit in her mouth, glaring at everyone except the Lord Protector, who is ever diligent and ever silent at her side. Martin can't imagine that he'll ever stray now. Not after it all.

After they've eaten, Emily tells Havelock he won't immediately return to his previous position. "But," she amends, "you can follow Captain Curnow around for a while and take some notes if you want." Havelock nods as the girl stifles a yawn, and then Emily looks at Martin and crinkles her nose. "There's no High Overseer right now. Callista says it's because they can't find it in the stars, but I think it's just because they can't find one in the Abbey." 

Any hope of a reply Martin could give is cut off when Emily continues, waving her hand in the air.

"So I'm promoting you back to High Overseer, but Corvo's going to watch you, okay?" 

Corvo is unyielding at his place by Emily, but there is a real stress to his stance, the tautness remarkable in his pose. He doesn't want her doing this. It's not his choice to make, and no matter how much he most definitely spoke against it, he couldn't tell her not to do it. The knowledge is a bit terrifying — a child in charge of Dunwall.

There could be worse, Martin decides.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time -- don't worry, the next one will (hopefully) make up for it :*

Martin grows tired of long, stone hallways and rugs that feel like elegant carpet under his feet. He grows tired of the polite greetings that servants give, the way Emily seems to keep from blaming him for everything, the way Havelock avoids his stare. He itches for a fight, or an argument, and not this ease. Prison was better than this. This is just...

This is forgiveness.

_He should be dead._

The High Overseer — yet to return to the Abbey — every so often he receives word of something that requires his approval or denial; when he's sent a battle plan and request for the Overseers to invade first the Flooded District again and then Brigmore Manor, Martin just looks at the note with a curled lip and tears it up and sends a definitive no in return. It has been but two weeks since the dinner, and Martin is anxious.

So he finds Corvo seated outside on the highest level, drops of rain beginning to fall around him. He seems to pay no mind to it, and Martin announces his presence with the slam of a door behind him.

Corvo doesn't move. The bodyguard probably knew he was there already, and Martin exhales heavily.

"Where is Pendleton?" Martin asks. Corvo looks up in what could be surprise. Maybe the man hadn't expected him to ask of Pendleton.

"He's been in his quarters since arriving here from Coldridge," Corvo says, eyes skating across the sky like he can see something in those clouds, read the rain as clearly as if it forms letters and words in the air. Martin shifts once, gaze dropping to Corvo's left hand and then away once he sees the glove instead of any mark. "He requests drink each time his food is taken to him." 

"Are we prisoners then?" Martin says scornfully, slow like he was twisting a blade with each syllable. Corvo stares at him with an acute expression. 

"No." Corvo goes back to reading the clouds and rain and sky. "He simply refuses to come out."

"And you want us alive for your conscience? Your moral standing?" 

Martin hasn't hit the soft spot he'd like. Corvo smiles ruefully, a flash and then gone again like the lightning in the distance.

"The _Empress_ wants you alive," the Protector corrects, and Martin knows the meaning that sits just underneath the surface of the words.

Emily wants him alive. Corvo wants him dead. 

Or at least far, far away from the girl. 

And Martin can't blame him.

  


* * *

  


"Why are _you_ here?" Pendleton demands in that thin, reedy voice of his, stepping back from the door as Martin brushes his way past him. At the same time that Pendleton protests with, "I don't recall inviting you," Martin says, "I brought a late housewarming gift," and drops an exquisite bottle of brandy onto Pendleton's admittedly fairly too luxurious bed.

Pendleton looks at him and back to the brandy. Sidles over to the bed and balks, finally, turns to take it and set it on the cabinet that shows all manner of other drinks, sampled and empty and some still yet to be drained.

Martin whistles. "Keeping yourself busy, I see." 

The small man makes a rotten face and crosses his arms. Before he can interrupt with whining or some form of a dismissal, Martin continues.

Brusque is the way of the world, after all.

"I'm here to discuss our situation," Martin says, standing off with Pendleton, even if Treavor looks like he's smelled something bad and Martin can bear the sight of him just about as much as he can Havelock at this point. "We're tucked away in Dunwall Tower, the city knows precious little of _why_ , if they know anything at all, and I have a nagging feeling that being kept alive was not Corvo's real game." 

Pendleton looks interested now. He's always been something of a follower, likes to think he can play with the older, stronger children — but he can't. Not even in his dreams. Weak-bodied and weak-willed, and perhaps Martin could have more respect for the man remaining if he stuck to his guns a bit _more_.

It was — still is — Martin's job to know his allies. Maybe even better than he knows his enemies.

"You think he means to have us tortured slowly?" Pendleton asks, nose wrinkling up further.

"I think he wouldn't mind us dying," Martin says, sidestepping that awful idea of Pendleton's. Slow torture hadn't been Corvo's style the entire time he was working as an assassin — why change so abruptly now? Attano the honest man, the only one out of them all. Even Samuel had lied; for the greater good of keeping Corvo's head above water or not, everyone had lied.

Except for Corvo.

"Are you proposing we poison _ourselves_ this time then?" 

Pendleton hadn't known of the poison Havelock had slipped them at the lighthouse, then. At least, not at the time. Somehow Martin can't find it in him to be surprised. Treavor isn't a fool, no, not really — he wouldn't have survived so long if he was. Couldn't have, with Morgan and Custis as his siblings, and Martin's fingers drum against the desk when he puts his hand there, Pendleton's protective glance towards the alcohol doing nothing to dissuade him. 

"I propose..."

Martin rubs over his mouth and hides the smile behind his palm, finally sighing before he finishes his answer.

"...We have a tea party."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see i'm not done w this yet =o=
> 
> FOLLOW ME ON [TUMBLR xoxo](http://outsidersblood.tumblr.com)

The next day is simple. Martin approaches Emily with the idea, and she clasps her hands together with an enthralled "yes!" and that is that. She insists on coloring the invitations, one by one, personalized and neat, and asks Martin if he will please join her in the gardens as well since he deserves the honor of being her assistant, as it had been his idea after all, and Martin thanks her for her graciousness and accepts said honor.

Corvo is overseeing it all with a hand on the hilt of his sword that sits at his hip, always, and Martin's eyes linger on the gloves that hide the mark. The Protector catches him looking and folds one hand over the other.

Martin's gaze slides away and there's a smirk playing on his lips.

"A tea party," Emily says, almost to herself. "This will not be a tea party, this will be a tea council. It has to have a proper-sounding name."

From where he's sitting on the ground, cross-legged, Martin hands her another sheet of paper as she finishes with the one she was coloring previously; it's bright — purple paper folded neatly, yellow acting as gold on the edges of the handdrawn boxes that surround the writing that curls and dips. Callista has done well with her tutoring thus far. Though Martin hasn't spoken with her yet, he can't exactly blame her for refusing to see him.

"Oh?" Martin says, and Corvo shoots him a careful glare that Martin pays no attention to, as he's only trying to keep the girl company, of course.

"Only the most important people will be invited after all." Emily says this decisively, like nothing else could ever amount. "I wish I could have everyone from Dunwall invited, but Corvo says that wouldn't be very easy to take care of."

"That's no fun," Martin says. He thinks Corvo might end up glaring a hole through his head at this rate.

"Well, one day I'll invite everyone from each isle, and we'll have the grandest tea party in history."

Martin curiously reaches over and puts a finger on top of the purple invitation, asking, "May I?" with a polite tone, and Emily grants him permission with a whispered, "It's Corvo's, so don't show him yet." Martin promises he won't before pulling the invitation over to himself, reading it.

The lettering is as metallic as one can make it with paints that only cover the spectrum of red to violet; but Martin is sure she tried, the yellow outlined with white doing the best job it can to serve the purpose. There's swirls in black here and there, and it's a curious, creeping feeling that spreads over the back of Martin's neck and down his spine. He wonders, dreadfully, if the girl knows just how much this appears to be the cloth found favorable for most of the shrines that heretics create for the Outsider. He is still the High Overseer, with or without being at the Abbey, and it was his job once upon a time to dismantle the things and punish those that kneel at the foot of them.

"It's very unique," he says neutrally, and Emily smiles widely and snatches it back with a confident glance to Corvo —

— who is not glaring so much as he is watching Martin now, something close to blankness in his unreadable expression. The man talks with his eyes more than he talks with his mouth, and all Martin sees in his eyes are a fair amount of fear.

"Yes, I thought so too," Emily says eagerly, and tucks the invitation into a pocket where no one can see it.

  


* * *

  


Before noon, Martin ends up with an invitation slid under his door, and he picks up the sheet of paper, unfolds it, and is pleased to read the blue lettering.

_Please meet the Empress_  
in the garden after lunch for a tea council.  
All invited must wear formal clothing  
and be on their best behavior. 

_Signed, Emily Kaldwin_

_(This is a mandatory gathering, you HAVE to come.)_

Her name is written in a shaky signature, and Martin feels a little curl of guilt in his chest at the innocent, childish attempt. The little Empress is beloved by her people and those closest to her, and Martin, for better or worse, is indebted to her for life for all that he's done. Indebted to a child Empress; there's a very small amount of hysterical amusement to the thought, and Martin tries not to let it show as he pockets his invitation and heads off to lunch and then the council.

  


* * *

  


"Welcome!" Emily greets, standing straight and proud from her seat.

Corvo is, as always, beside her, sitting in a delicate-looking chair. Martin has been placed to Emily's left, and then in the rest of the circle is Havelock, Pendleton, Samuel, Piero, and Callista, who sits in between the inventor and Corvo with a pensive curve to her brow. It feels like some sick joke, all of them here, and Martin can tell that everyone else agrees just from how tense the table is. Piero is scratching his cheek nervously, Samuel is trying his best to look patient and even-keeled. Havelock and Pendleton are refusing to look at each other, but Pendleton at least seems to know not to speak up about it, though his cheeks are ruddy. Corvo is silent and scarily so, at that; Martin sweats underneath his red High Overseer robes that stayed folded up on his provided dresser until today.

He can't ignore those that are missing from the table -- not because they weren't invited, but because they couldn't have joined even if they had wanted to.

At least no one but Pendleton and Corvo know that it was his idea.

"Today is our first tea council, thanks to High Overseer Martin," says Emily.

Martin keeps looking at Emily to avoid the sudden stares everyone is giving him.

"And we are here to discuss Dunwall's, um... political state and economic standing, as well as to enjoy each other's company and the goodwill of our shared — uh... agenda!"

By the Void, this is the worst idea Martin has ever had.

"So, let's get started with some tea?" Emily suggests to finish her speech off, and pours herself a cup before passing it over his head to Callista, as Corvo waves it away for now.

The Lord Protector looks like he's about to buckle under with how much stress he's under (and the only thing keeping him from bending is sheer determination); the three men who made an attempt on his life are sitting civilly at the table for a meal with him. But more than that, they are the three men who tried to kidnap the most important person in his world, and Martin is sure that even if Emily forgives them all, Corvo never will. He will not forgive and he will not forget, and Martin truly has no idea what made the man save all three of them.

"Never thought I'd be having any drinks with you boys again," Martin remarks as the tea is passed to him, and Havelock mumbles something under his breath while Pendleton sends an impressively scandalized look to Martin. He pours his cup, but does not drink anything from it as he hands the tea over to Emily again. This time, she pours Corvo a cup of tea herself.

"This is a terrible plan, Martin," Pendleton hisses, and Samuel is looking at all three of them like he's tempted to pour his cup right over on their heads.

"I only wanted to reconcile —" Martin is saying when Emily interrupts by tapping her glass with a spoon.

"Now, first order of business is... oh, yes. How is the tea?" Emily asks.

Martin looks down at his drink. He notices, with no small amount of ridiculous, inappropriate delight, that no one at the table aside from Emily herself has had a single sip of their tea. Not even to sample it. Everyone is entirely still, until Samuel takes the fall by lifting his cup to his mouth and taking a long drink of it.

Silence.

Then:

"Very good, your ladyship," Samuel says somberly.

After that, nobody else hesitates to drink, and even if there's some quiet, stiff conversation, it doesn't exactly feel forced. There is a lot of bad blood at the table, yes; though, somehow, for the sake of the Empress, all of the members are able to at least somewhat keep hostilities under control. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea after all, Martin muses to himself and calmly takes another sip of his tea. By the time the so-called council is almost over, they've really gone over nothing but formalities, no actual discussion of political status or economic standing or any agendas, but Martin does slip in what he originally wanted to while every other member of the tea council is busy with their own discussions.

"Corvo," he says soft enough to not draw any unwanted attention, and the Protector looks at him with a wide-eyed skepticism. "I am a curious person at the core — I like problem-solving. Now, I have to ask, as I said, I'm naturally curious. Why save my life, hm? Surely you'd be much less worried for Lady Emily's well-being if I was simply... you know." He mimes like he's cutting his own throat.

Corvo is rigid next to him and glances away once before he matches Martin's quiet tone and answers.

"You didn't deserve to die," Corvo says like that answers everything, and it does, but Martin pushes and pushes because he wants to know it confirmed by the man himself.

"Too good for it?" hazards Martin anyway, shrugging it off like he knows Corvo didn't mean the exact opposite. When Corvo smiles slightly, strained and short, Martin can hear the words before Corvo's even said them.

"Not good enough."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long time coming huh! my writing style has really thinned itself down in the last two years between updates whoops

When Martin was a highwayman, he'd kept company that feared no man and no thing. They'd all understood that invincibility was a desire out of reach — they would never liken themselves to fools — but Martin's fingers had itched with the want of it all. Avarice was not his cardinal sin, but sometimes, _sometimes._ Invincibility was stability. Invincibility was power. Invincibility was the end of all things.

Who needed titleship or a name rife with nobility when instead one could be untouchable?

The Overseer whose place he took wasn't _entirely_ an unwilling subject of Martin's covetous manipulation. As it turned out, even Overseers were not above the whalesong call of the void, which dragged better men than they deeper and deeper. Martin was not unfamiliar with the Outsider — he had spent many a moment laughing, laughing, _laughing_ , jokes while holding precious bones and runes, mockeries of the insanity that was brought about by the presence of any and all heretical marks and symbols. Finding notes abandoned alongside sticky pools of blood, the red-black soaking into purple cloth like a baptism. Reading the journals of the damned with a grain of salt and glittering eyes.

To be untouchable was to be unknowable.

To be unknowable was to be powerful.

Martin's fingers continued to _itch_.

It had gone like this:

A conversation, back-and-forth. Martin bringing drinks, innocent enough at first. The Overseer bringing knowledge, innocent enough at first. Swapping tales disguised as fiction while both gazes shone with the dangerous way of speaking so tongue-in-cheek. The Overseer allowing his Strictures to slip between his gloved fingers like river water; Martin, smiling away, tongue as silver and sharp as the blade at his hip. Ultimately, the Overseer had forfeited the uniform and place; trading a shrine location for his new role in the world, Martin found little reason to be disappointed in his catch. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he'd lied about being an Overseer — it had simply been the first time he had the coat and mask to prove it.

Martin has already laughed at the very _idea_ of the Outsider. Occasionally, sitting alone, he'd catch himself musing about _what if, what if_. What if he did meet the one who he was meant to defend against?

He had, at some point, decided that it didn't matter much. Either way, any gifts the Outsider was known to bestow would fall on deaf ears. Martin had always been familiar with nothing; why would he ever be tempted to accept _something?_

* * *

Nowadays, chances are being given back to Martin; primarily, he finds them suitable second chances, fisted in white-knuckled hands and scrawled on royal paper.

Thinking of the mark on the back of Corvo's (gloved) hand causes Martin to keep cool when the air may crackle. Havelock's presence continues to be heavy, dragging Martin down with his words like the rocks Martin has tied to ankles in the past before tossing the beleaguered into choppy waters. Pendleton is whining company and Martin now finds him irritating even when he doesn't open his pinched mouth. Samuel does not speak with him. Callista dares not meet his gaze, but when their glances catch, she looks angry and afraid before she refuses to look at him any longer.

Martin finds himself missing Cecelia, of all people.

A dreadful pull of something in the back of his head urges him to turn from his desk and look out over the room. Something, he feels, is wrong. The angle of the wall is closer? The floorboards are loose? The door is slightly off its hinges, just so? Studying all of this for too long hurts his eyes, and Martin grows tired of it, for a moment wondering beyond all wonder if maybe something has been slipped into his drink again. A quick motion to stand and he's stalking across the room like wrenching open the door might give him an answer — or at the least, provide him an obvious place to keel over and die. If he's lucky, Corvo will trip over his still-warm corpse and fall on his own blade.

Then everything crumbles beneath him and, all at once, Martin falls through the floor.

It's an utterly impossible thought to have; a second ago, and his feet were on solid wood, stories high in Dunwall Tower. Martin knows it is impossible, and yet — he's falling. That is, he is falling until he isn't. Almost as if sensing his distaste for this avenue, the world rights itself and Martin lands smoothly on his feet as if he'd never been dropped from any height in the first place; inside of his chest, his heart heaves, his stomach curling up wildly and pleading with him _never again._

He's — he's in Kingsparrow Lighthouse again. Half of it, at least. The other half of the building is somewhere _else_ , somewhere _other._ Instead, the lighthouse itself is flayed open halfway to show a void. The pale blue of what can only be described as the sky soaks into Martin's mind like it's always belonged there. He blinks to rid himself of it, momentarily distracted as water drips _upwards_ from one of the cups at the table. With a sick, dizzying revelation, Martin recognizes the cup as his own. The poisoned liquid continues to find its way against gravity. His stomach again begs him.

Martin immediately thinks he might hurl, but he doesn't get the chance.

A sound like the snapping of cloth and thunder beneath the ocean causes Martin's attention to turn on a swivel. Black oozes from the space in front of him now, someone waiting there with an unreadable expression. The man's odd number of rings catch the strange light as he crosses his arms; Martin could not dream of tearing away his gaze, not while his vision unmakes itself around the edges of the black-eyed stranger.

Heresy, heresy, heresy. Strictures threaten to come out of his throat. Parables rend his chest apart. Quotes from the Litany dance just under his tongue.

"Teague Martin," says the Outsider.

Martin's lips curve up in response to his name, teeth as bright as the rings adorning the Outsider's fingers. In his veins, his pulse quiets. In his mind, a storm is calmed. Martin sees another chance being presented to him, and he begins to laugh.

_Untouchable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit, 5/28/17: :'( yeah i'm probably not gonna ever finish this. sorry! thank you to those who read it and anyone who was still interested two, three years later - it means the world to me.


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